"What kind of a gun have you got?" asked the rancher, as he stopped and took it from my hands.
"It's a Henry." The men gathered around and one by one carefully examined the rifle.
"Sixteen shooters, ain't they?" asked one.
"Yes, 32 calibre."
While the weapon was commanding the undivided attention of the men in the room, an occasion was afforded me to take a more careful survey of the furnishings, among which were a few guns, saddles, and other trappings for horsemen.
I was what might properly be termed, in the parlance of the country, an innocent tenderfoot, and yet an innocent on observing the interior of a home cannot fail to form some impressions concerning the type of people who occupy it.
"This stream off here is a branch of Green River, is it not?" I propounded the question partly to get my bearings and partly to hasten the examination of the rifle.
"Yes," replied one, without raising his eyes from the gun, "it's Ham's Fork,—but does this gun throw the spent cartridge all right when the hammer comes up?"
"Yes, it works all right. Is there much game along the stream?"
"Wa'al, there's right smart of game round here sometimes,"—which response was a shibboleth that betrayed the speaker as having come from Indiana. Something, for the first time since we left the Missouri River, brought to my mind the spirit of Whitmore's admonition, "Beware of Ham's Fork."